Bound by Lies: Bound #1 (Adult Romantic Suspence)

by Peach, Hanna

  When he looks back up at me I remember myself. I cross my arms and try to pin him with a look. He merely looks amused, and it infuriates me even more. I fantasize about slapping him. But the fantasy turns as he grabs my wrist and pulls me against him. I grab his hair, his locks feeling like silk between my fingers, and kiss the hell out of that incredible mouth until his smirk is reduced to a quiver between my lips.

  I hear the growl of the bike as it comes to life, snapping me out of this fantasy. He is still sitting on his bike staring at me with a knowing look as if he just read my mind. I flush from my cheeks to between my thighs.

  “Wait,” I manage to call out before he pulls away. “What’s rule number one?”

  “Patience.”

  As he rides away I feel the rumble of his engine all the way through my body.

  Chapter 3

  The present

  From that very first night I met him, he kept me waiting and since then he hasn’t stopped. All alone in my apartment, I look down at the latest note in my fingers again.

  Midnight Falls. Cabin #11. Sunday 4pm.

  Three days.

  These three days stretch out in front of me like an eternity. It might as well be three years or three lifetimes. The gnawing itching under my skin gets worse. I need to see him now. I need to be with him now. I need us to be folded all around each other. Now. But I can’t. He has never given me any way to contact him.

  I need something to keep my mind and body busy. My previous form of distraction is off limits to me now so… Three days. How do I survive the next three days?

  The same way I survive every day without him.

  I press the note and my hand across my mouth like a gag and it crumples against my lips. I pretend that it is his hand. The note smells even stronger of him than the envelope. His scent hits me so deep, right there, right where I want him pushing into me. It makes it easier to hold the feeling of him around me. It’s still like comparing the scent of a dried petal to a whole flower in full bloom. But until I can have the real thing, this will have to do.

  I close my eyes as my other hand unbuttons my pants and slips down into the front of my underwear to press at this soaking wet ache. Jesus, look what you do to me.

  As I touch myself he is the only thing I think about. His lips, his eyes, his hands. The thought of him consumes me. My legs part further to accommodate his fingers as he slips them inside me and curls them up to press against that sensitive ridge. I need more. My hips begin to push back as I tighten around him. His voice growls inside my ear, “That’s it, kitten.”

  I come hard, grunting and panting his name against the notepaper now wet from my lapping tongue. I fall back against my chair and crush the note in my fist feeling full and empty at the same time. I wait for my breathing to settle and the heat from my skin to subside before I open my eyes. And accept that he isn’t really here.

  Chapter 4

  Six months ago

  Two days after he dropped me at home, a box is delivered to my door. A white box tied with a single pale blue bow.

  I sit on my floor against the front of my bed with the box placed between my legs. I stare at it for the longest time, suspicious. There is no return address, no note on the front, no indication that it is even meant for me. Except that the delivery man insisted that this was the right address when he dropped it off.

  I pull at the ties and the pale blue silk comes apart in my hands and tumbles down over the sides of the box. Then with trembling fingers I lift the lid.

  The inside is swathed in pale blue tissue paper. I brush it aside and frown when the light shines against green silk. On top of the material is a small envelope with the words “Dear kitten” on it. I swear my heart stops for a moment. This is from him.

  “Be good, kitten. I’ll be in touch.”

  I open the envelope and pull out the note. The first note. Plain white paper, written in black ink, sealing our fates.

  Hotel deCrystal bar. Friday 9pm.

  A date? I don’t do dates. I won’t go. I shouldn’t go.

  But God damn it. I have been thinking about his voice and his tongue against my neck and his hot breath rumbling across my skin for every second that I have been awake since he left me standing outside my apartment. My hand rises to my neck where his hand held me so firmly, and it presses into the invisible handprint that he left behind like a depression in wet sand.

  I snatch my hand away from my neck. No. I’m not going.

  I turn back to the box and finger the emerald silk material. I pull it out and gasp. The green silk cascades in front of me into the form of a dress. A gorgeous dress. That will match his eyes when I stand next to him wearing it.

  I rub the note again with my fingers. Hotel deCrystal bar. Friday 9 p.m. Hotel deCrystal is a swanky bar and this is a swanky dress, both more than I can afford. My eyes wander to the tag at the neckline. Holy Hell. The designer name on the dress makes my eyes water. I already know that this damn dress costs more than I make per month.

  Shit. I’m not even going to try it on. No. I’m just going to put it back in the box and return it, thank you very much. Except there is no return address on the box. I will have to take it with me and return it to him. I guess it wouldn’t hurt just to go if only to return the dress. Nothing to do with the fact that I want to see him again. No, nothing to do with that.

  I lower the dress into my lap as if it is a babe. I run my fingers across the silky fabric and across the hand-stitched detailing under the bust. It is so beautiful. When would I ever get to wear something so beautiful?

  Maybe I’ll just try it on. Yes, I’ll just try it on and then I’ll pack it away and forget about the Hotel deCrystal.

  I undress and stand naked, holding the dress out in front of me. I undo the zipper and the dress peels apart like an elegant waterfall. I step into the swathes of material and pull it up over my hips. When I pull up the zipper the bodice closes around me as if it was tailored for me.

  I step in front of the mirror and gasp at my reflection. The emerald silk is bold and vibrant against my skin. It sits off the shoulder and dives elegantly like a swan across my collarbone. The skirt skims off my hips and falls to a gather at my knees and calves, giving me a screen-siren-like hourglass shape. I blur a little behind the moisture in my eyes. It fits me perfectly. Like he has been dressing me all his life.

  The thought that his fierce green eyes had been all over me, studying my body so intently that he fitted me like he was my damn tailor, has my whole body buzzing. Suddenly, I have never been so aware of my skin. From the ends of my toes up to the tips of my ears.

  A wave of fear rushes through me, cracking against the heat like cold water. No. I can’t go. I can’t wear the dress. I won’t. He won’t be dressing me like his little doll. If I take the gift I’ll owe him. I don’t want to owe anyone anymore.

  Jacob makes me twirl in this large plush dressing room. I can barely breathe as I stand in this silk red corset, matching G-string and garters turning my legs into two dark pins in black stilettos. He instructs me turn around and bend over so I am touching my toes. My cheeks heat with shame as I feel his eyes on my barely covered ass and pussy, held in the air for him like a cheap stripper. The whale-boning digs into my hips as I bend. Like bars of a cage.

  “Yes,” his voice cuts through the air towards me. “You will wear this tonight and only this.”

  When I stand again and turn to meet his eyes they are already tearing me apart. My arms come up to cross my chest. “But Jacob, please, I don’t feel comfortable−”

  “You’ll wear it.” His eyes narrow to slits. “Because I tell you to.”

  I shake my head until that memory dislodges from my mind. No. I can’t wear this dress. I won’t let him dress me. I need to get this off. I can’t. Oh God. I can’t breathe. A wave of panic overcomes me and my fingers grab at the zipper and tug it down. I fling the material from my body.

  I stand up straight and glare at the crumpled material as my breathi
ng returns to normal. I thrust my chin in the air. I don’t have to wear it. I don’t. I’ll just go in a different dress. I’ll show him who’s in control.

  It’ll just be the one date, I tell myself. Just one. Just to tell him that it will only be this one time. We can have sex and I can get him out of my system and I can disappear back into this piecemeal existence that I call my life.

  I have never been to the Hotel deCrystal bar. As I step into the opulent space on Friday night I try not to gape. Chandeliers drip with real crystals, the cream and gold carpet is so plush my heels sink into it, the waiters are dressed in tailored coat and tails. In my left hand I hold a bag containing the box of unwanted obligation in the form of emerald silk. I wear a red dress, strapless and knee-length, the most formal thing I own, but I still feel so out of place. I almost wish I’d worn the green dress.

  My heart pounds more than it should at the thought of seeing him again. My stomach is in knots. What will he say when he sees that I didn’t wear his dress? How will he react? I glance around and remind myself that I am safe from his reaction in this public place. I was feeling so assured before, but now that I am here…

  I don’t even know his name.

  Then I see him sitting at a small table, staring out the full-length window beside him. He looks thoughtful, his finger tapping on his chin, a frown marring his profile. For a second I almost panic and run. But he spots me and his face softens. He stands to face me. For a moment, my world becomes silent.

  I get the feeling like I’m standing on the edge of the sea about to dive in. Below me sharp brutal rocks have been submerged in a calm and elegant high tide, flawless and alluring from above, but underneath, the danger remains.

  He is devastatingly beautiful. More beautiful than I remember. He has shaved his face since the last time we met, revealing smooth golden skin that glides across the strong plain of his jaw and his protruding cheekbones. His dark hair has been slicked down and back. He is dressed in dark pants and a white button-up shirt under his dinner jacket. Holy Jesus. The way he fills out that suit makes my belly tighten.

  I force myself forward. My knees are trembling so much I have to focus on each step to make sure I don’t trip on my face. He meets me halfway. Even with my heels on I have to stare up at this man. God, he is huge, thick and tall and towering. I catch his scent of wood smoke and that feeling of safety washes over me. His eyes are hooded and intense and they have me caught in his gaze.

  “Good evening, kitten. You look incredible.” And in that moment, under the spotlight of his eyes, I feel it.

  He scoops my hands up and places a soft feathery kiss on my fingers, sending tingles all over the back of my hand. I try to pull my hand from his. But he won’t let go just yet. His lips part and he drops his mouth over my knuckles to give me a second kiss. Eyes still on me, he drags the tip of his tongue across my skin in a lick that I feel all the way down to my toes. I swallow a moan.

  Two kisses. One sweet, one wicked. These two kisses represent the duality I can already see in him.

  He leads me to the bucket sofa next to the seat that he was sitting in when I arrived. When he lets go of my arm I sink into the softness. I expect him to sit in the armchair to my left. But he doesn’t. He squeezes his frame in between the table and the couch, one leg pressing against mine. He looks down expectantly at me. I choke silently as he towers above me. I realize he wants me to move up so he can sit next to me. But for some reason I can’t move. I don’t want to. Without meaning to, my gaze drops to find the delicious bulge at the front of his pants. My mouth parts around a silent Oh. God.

  He pushes one leg between mine. Then the other, forcing my knees further apart. Now he is standing with his hips right there for me. Oh yes. We both want this. My mouth waters as I lean forward, my hands quickly unzipping his pants and finding his...

  I flinch and sink back into the seat, snapping my legs shut, my cheeks on fire. He has already moved past me, oblivious to my dirty mind, and is turning around so he can sit down. Already his proximity is making my brain turn to mush. I need to put some space between us. To regain some of my control.

  I expect him to sit on the other side of the couch from me. But he doesn’t. He sits right in the middle of the couch. Right next to me. Right. Next. To. Me. As he settles in and his knees fall out a little, our thighs touch. My skin practically burns through this dress. I could push myself up and over him and slide right down on him and I’ll bet I would fit perfectly around his…

  I lean back against the arm of the chair, needing space, needing air. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t act this way around men. Not even good looking men. I am always the one in control. I am the one who they are flailing around. Not the other way round. Not like this.

  He turns his torso towards me and rests his left arm around the back of the couch behind me. At this angle it only serves to highlight the leanness of his waist under that tucked-in white shirt, and the width of his shoulders are highlighted by the soft black cotton of his suit and its wide lapels. I can feel the heat of his forearm through his jacket across my bare shoulder blades. Good lord. I can’t move. I feel like I am being held here. Imprisoned. Even though he is barely touching me.

  “I am so glad you came, kitten.”

  Somewhere through my haze, I find my voice. “Did I even have a choice?”

  “You always have a choice with me. Always.”

  Do I really? At the moment it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like my eyes are moving across this muscled form so lavishly cloaked in black Armani. And it feels like my body is planning a mutiny on my sensibilities; its sole thought is to completely submit to this beautiful man. Whatever he wants…

  Damn him.

  “You sent this dress as emotional blackmail.” I shove the bag at him with my left hand, pushing it between us like a shield.

  He ignores the bag and doesn’t take his eyes off me. “It isn’t emotional blackmail.”

  “Really? Then… what the hell is it?”

  “A gift.”

  “What do you want for it?”

  He gives me an odd look. Then shakes his head. “Nothing.”

  “Then why did you give it to me?”

  “Because I wanted to.”

  For a second I am stunned into silence. No. He’s lying. He must be. I push the bag into his chest. “I won’t accept it.”

  Only then does he look down at the crushed bag in his lap. “You didn’t like the dress? You aren’t wearing it.”

  I lift my chin. Stay strong. “No. I’m not wearing it. I didn’t want to.” I won’t let you control me. I won’t.

  “Okay then.” He smiles and places the bag at his feet. “You look beautiful regardless.”

  I peer at him closely, looking for a twitch in his jaw, a crease between his brows. For a sign of the monster underneath. But… I see none of those things. “You… You’re not mad that I’m not wearing the dress?”

  He laughs and the sound rolls over me, silk over gravel. “No. I wouldn’t get mad if you said you didn’t want to do something I asked you to.” He grins and leans closer. “I would instead make it so that you didn’t want to say no.”

  His finger strokes along the back of my neck, a light touch that awakens my nerve endings all the way down my back. I have to fight not to visibly shudder. Stupid carnal needy body. I can’t deny that a part of me wants to say yes to him. But he can’t know this. I have to regain my control over this conversation and myself.

  “Ha!” I scoff. “You’re so sure of yourself.”

  “You think I’m being unnecessarily arrogant.”

  “You are.”

  “You just think that because you don’t know what’s coming.” He leans his face in close to mine. So close I can feel his breath rushing around my cheeks. His green eyes crackle with fire. “You’ll say yes to me, kitten. You’ll say yes to me and only me. You know how I know?”

  I shake my head, trying to swallow but failing. The heat emanating off him is so
intense it has caused my mouth to go dry. With his nose he nudges my cheek to the side so he can access my neck.

  His voice, so low and hot, fucks my ear. “I’m going to make you feel so good that it’ll ruin you for all other men.”

  Oh dear God.

  I whimper.

  He pulls back, right back, so that I can see his face. The intensity of his expression hasn’t softened – if anything it has darkened. There is no playfulness in what he has just said, no lightness to his expression, no quirk of his lips. Just a promise. A promise I know he is going to deliver.

  A single white-hot flame licks between my thighs, leaving me aching and my thin lace panties wet. I tear my gaze away in case my eyes have become transparent and he can see how much he is effecting me inside. I cross my arms over my breasts to hide my nipples which are so torturously pressing against the material of this dress.

  Thankfully, the waitress arrives at this very moment, breaking the tension. She places two black napkins down in front of us before adding drinks. “Your scotch, sir. And your Shirley Temple, madam.”

  My drink is tall and orange and filled with ice. I play with the straw and take a sip just to be polite. I frown when I detect something missing.

  “I noticed that you don’t like to drink,” he says, noting my reaction. “So I ordered you a virgin cocktail. I hope you don’t mind.”

  A strange feeling starts to invade me. He knows where I live, he knows what size dress I wear, he knows I don’t drink. It has been a while since another man has known anything personal about me. And a long time since any man has cared to know.

  I take another sip. This time it is long, and I use it as a way of buying time while I try to regain my balance in this conversation. “You know so much about me already,” I say, “but I don’t even know your name.”